The Things of London & Love
by The Baker Street Irregular
Summary: John loved London, and if the city, for all it's vices and triumphs acknowledged a mascot, Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in a dark coat of surface and secrets, would manifest it entirely. But Sherlock loved things like London loved things, and the city streets could be very dangerous indeed.


**Hi readers, **

**This is just a small note to give you some background info on this story. It was inspired by this post on tumblr, which poked fun an John's insanely expensive prop items. As my mind tried to explain inverse how this might have happened, this is the result. **

** post/36940890260/watson-has-no-right-to-complain-a bout-bills-when-he**

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They were the kind of things that John would stop to admire passing by on his way to the grocery. Things on display behind illuminated glass of some posh store, the name of which John had dared not remember. He'd never even thought of purchasing these kinds of things with the small army pension he was afforded. Working at Bart's, he supposed he could save some of his earnings if he'd wanted, but even then, John couldn't justify the extravagant prices:

**Loake Shoes...£175.00**

**A Haversack Coat..£725.00**

**A Tag Heuer Wristwatch...£3000.00**

In the end, John thought, that was all they were. Things. Items cursed with fashionable big names that were really all just smoke and mirrors. A lie that captured the hearts of those who dared to believe in it, and John didn't want that - to be mistaken for the brands that he wore. It may have been a bit old-fashioned, but he wanted to be seen exactly as he was, even if that happened to be boring, normal John. Lack of both appearances and money, had apparently kept him extremely humble throughout his lifetime.

John pursed his lips together and furrowed his brow, continuing to ponder the watch. He may have thought himself humble, but this was the third time he had consciously caught himself at the storefront. He admired the watch's attention to detail, reminiscing how valuable a reliable source of time had once been in the soldier's life.

Admittedly, John loved their enchantment. It was the same brand of dark magic that London had cast over him from the very first moment he set foot into the city; life humming with brilliant detail and glamorous lustre. From that moment, John Hamish Watson knew to the very fiber of his being, that he had completely and irrevocably fallen in love. He was breathless, and the spell wrapped around him like the trailing chemical dust of a cigarette.

John's eyes flicked to the leather shoulder guard of the coat. Its fabric looked durable enough to survive even the worst cases.

If London, for all its vices and triumphs, acknowledged a mascot of sorts, Sherlock Holmes, mysteriously wrapped in a dark coat, would manifest the enigma entirely. His mind was much like the city streets: brilliantly illuminated with intricate details that were ever in motion, bursting with noise and life - but within its recesses lay ominous cracks, entrances into the underground world, where dangerous secrets lived in dark alleyways. It was there, where Sherlock found his living: among the garbage and filth of the city streets, but even so, that was beautiful in it's own right.

Just as London was made all the more beautiful from it's own sharp contrasts, Sherlock's dark elegant curls and sharp cheekbones were carved in the manner of some posh gemstone representative cultural superiority, but within the hard edges were smooth surfaces that when caught in a particular light, glowed spectacularly from within.

John shuddered realizing that his mind had wandered too far. The point was, that luxury things fit Sherlock far too well, especially as John watched him treat those things as London itself would….Loved to pieces, would be a fitting expression. John on the other hand, was unfit for such fashion statements, and the way he would worship one, should he ever acquire such a thing, would also be unfit. He would care for it as he cared for Sherlock, and John's hands were already full with the the madman sharing his living space.

John sighed, collecting one last look before tearing his gaze away from the window. He had always held a particular fondness for well crafted shoes...but did things like brand name shoes, watches and coats actually impress a date? John continued on his way to the grocery wondering about such trivial things. Life in London, would go on. And John would move with it.

It wouldn't be until his birthday, that he would think of such things again. John had always suspected that Sherlock knew far too much about his personal life. Now, he had proof.

Wrapped in a small package, simple fittings attempted to conceal the monetary value of what lay inside. John gaped at Sherlock as he opened the box.

"Oh…My God."

"They suit you, I'm not taking them back." Before John could protest, Sherlock's preemptive strike fell into the silence of the room.

"Sherlock, you could have paid for-"

"My finances are directed where I see fit. A birthday gift for a close friend who desperately needs to re-evaluate wearing jumpers for a date, isdefinitely fit."

John carefully ran his fingers over the Haversack coat fabric. He was at a loss for words.

"Do you really think I can wear these..I'm not exactly-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, they fit you perfectly: Everything that is London, apart the unnecessary grandiose presentation of it's own ego." Sherlock leaned forward in the chair and smiled at John. After a moment he added a wink.

"Undoubtedly, you will impress your dates, so please refrain from returning these items to spite my indulgence in exquisite taste."

John was unsure if Sherlock's comment was stroking his own ego or John's, but Sherlock had just given him a piece of the city he so cherished, and with it, a fragment of the person he most cherished within it. John softly smiled, holding back bursting emotion as he tried the items on.

"I really don't know what to say, Thank you, Sherlock"

**"I'm a Fake."**

Sherlock represented the best and the worst of London, and If the city was nothing but smoke and mirrors, then its great detective would not disappoint. The elegant facade that paraded through John's life was lifted, leaving him standing with awe in the chaos of it's wake.

"You told me once…that you weren't a hero…Umm… There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human… human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so… there."

John might have seen Sherlock's smoke and mirrors, but he also liked to believe he saw through them as well. He recognized the enchantment for what it was the moment that he understood he was in love. In that moment, he dared to hope that in turn, a similar spell had been wrapped around his friend...that it was possible even Sherlock Holmes could fall in love.

But the final problem was that Sherlock loved things like London loved things.

And although he dressed his best for the occasion.

John was loved to pieces at the funeral.


End file.
